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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431340">Thoughts.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchywrites/pseuds/anarchywrites'>anarchywrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DnD - Fandom, OC - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:15:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchywrites/pseuds/anarchywrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Reflection.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Thoughts.</h2></a>
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    <p>I remember my mother in only bits and pieces of my life. Parts of me have been taken out of my body, parts of me have been taken from my body, and of them, she slipped away.<br/>
I never thought of her, I never yearned for her, I never cried for her loss. It seemed all I could do in relation to the loss of my mother was to accept that it happened, and to accept that my father was all I had now. Of course, my sisters were alive at that point, but what were they to me? A grouped-up bunch of spoiled girls who used me as their footrest when things didn’t go their way. What was I to them? Nothing but a doll to take out frustration; a tool to clean up messes without having to lift a finger.<br/>
On some level I enjoyed it; I love the feeling of cleaning because it takes something that was once impure and makes it perfect. And who does that better than I? Who knows impure better than I? It was never a choice for me to be like this. I never asked to be removed from myself. Stripped of skin and muscle, I weep for the feeling I used to have. But everything happens for a reason.<br/>
He did this to me for a reason. He had to have done this to me for a reason.<br/>
My father was a glorious man and a smart one to boot. He knew how to operate on anything that moved. He knew how to help people; he knew how to make them stop hurting. He knew how to make me stop hurting. I think he was the only one who knew how to make me stop hurting, even though all he did was hurt me.<br/>
That makes me sound as if I didn’t appreciate him – I loved my father as much as anyone else could. I loved my father more than anyone could ever hope to love someone, and I admired him and his abilities and his personality, for no matter what changed, he would find some way to continue through it. Through heartbreak and hitch, he knew what to do. I’d look to him for his help in the worst of times, and I’d look to him for his approval in the best of times.<br/>
But perfection is a flaw. I can admit that. He made mistakes, of course. But I was never one to question the decisions he made. And he was very careful when he cut me open, which is all I could’ve asked for.<br/>
I had to prove it to him, though. I had to prove to him that I loved him. Fortunately, I could do that. I clawed and hacked and slashed until something broke off. I gave it to him. He regarded it with the warmest smile, even as I stood bleeding in front of him, he found beauty. I couldn’t smell anymore, which was interesting. There was so much blood, it’d be difficult not to smell it.<br/>
Interesting. Interesting, that was something he always said. He was somewhat soft spoken; it was so exhilarating. I remember so much of him, everything. I remember my father’s smile. I remember how he would clap his hand on his friend’s back when they would tell him jokes.<br/>
I remember how he would sigh when something wasn’t going the way it was supposed to.<br/>
I remember the sound of the chain of his pocket watch, clinking down the hallway on his way to my quarters.<br/>
I remember how cold his knives were. How sharp they were. How concise he was.<br/>
It always hurt; how could it not have hurt? But I knew what I was sacrificing was for a great cause. The poor man, his daughters were all gone, but not me. I showed to him how loyal I was by not leaving him. He had to start work on pulling his children from the jaws of death, but I was already here. I was ready to help and help I did. He needed my blood, he needed my insides, he needed me, and I was more than ready to give.<br/>
I did ask him, once. What my mother was like. He didn’t have an answer for me, interestingly. He didn’t want to talk about her.<br/>
“Rosebud,” He said to me. “She hurt me greatly, my dear. She looked so much like you, I see her in your eyes every day. Don’t look at me.”<br/>
“Take them out,” I told him. “Take them out, and you won’t ever have to see them again.”<br/>
He did, but bless his soul, he put new ones in. They didn’t quite fit; my eye sockets are sore; can you believe that? It’s okay, I promise. It sounds worse than it is.<br/>
I don’t want to learn of my mother, and what she’s done. She wasn’t there when my sisters perished, and she wasn’t there when my father did the same. She wasn’t working every day to make them happy, and she isn’t working everyday to bring them back.<br/>
I am. And I will succeed, even if it kills me.</p>
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